When sorrow sang
by Ailendolin
Summary: After their fight it doesn't take long for Geralt to stumble upon Jaskier again. There's only one way down the mountain, after all. What he didn't expect was to catch him in an unguarded moment - one that changes everything for both of them.
1. Regrets

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of the characters and make no money with this.

**When sorrow sang**

**Chapter 1: Regrets**

The way down the mountain was just as long and tedious as the hike up had been but Geralt didn't mind. Life had already thrown the worst it possibly could at him today. A mind-numbingly long march was nothing in comparison to the tears in Yennefer's eyes, tears he had caused with his long-ago actions. He would never forget how she had looked when she learned the truth, and the way she had turned her back on him and left him behind would forever haunt him in the darkest hours of the night.

The unwanted reminder of the Child Surprise, a thoughtless mistake he'd made years ago, had only served to fuel his anger and frustration, made them boil and bubble in every vein and artery like magma in the bowels of the earth. All it had taken to unleash it all, to make Geralt lose control, was Jaskier's false and ill-timed cheerfulness prodding and poking at festering wounds.

"Damn it, Jaskier!" he had shouted. "Why is it, whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's you shoveling it?"

"That's not fair," Jaskier had said as he stood there above him, all of a sudden looking very small despite the advantage of height he had in that moment. The words had been said a little too quietly and without any of Jaskier's usual exuberance, yet Geralt had been too angry to notice any of it, hadn't _listened_.

"The Child Surprise!" he'd kept on roaring. "The djinn, all of it! If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!"

He'd turned around, the anger still viciously simmering beneath the very surface of his skin and barely contained, unable to look at Jaskier's face for even a second longer. But that didn't stop him from hearing the disappointment in Jaskier's voice when he said farewell, the hurt Jaskier just couldn't hide beneath fake nonchalance even though he desperately tried, and then, finally, the sound of worn boots on gravel, walking away. It was in that moment that Geralt realized that he'd just pushed his … whatever Jaskier was to him – bard, travel companion, _friend_ – away for good.

He should be happy about that. It was what he'd wanted since the moment Jaskier wandered into his life, after all. But as much as Geralt tried to feel relieved when the bard's footsteps faded in the distance, he just couldn't – not when the emptiness Yennefer left in her wake only grew with every step Jaskier took away from him. It spread to the very edges of Geralt's being until he felt hollow and carved out, and it tugged at him viciously, urging him to turn around and go after Jaskier, to apologize and fix the one thing he had the power to make right on this cursed day.

The notion was ridiculous, of course. Geralt would do no such thing. What he'd said to Jaskier had only been the truth, even if the words had been spoken in anger. Ever since the day he met Jaskier trouble seemed to follow him wherever he went, just like the bard's tiresome songs. It was Jaskier's fault he'd been at the ball in Cintra in the first place where his whole life, his fucking destiny, had changed with a few carelessly uttered words. It had also been Jaskier's fault that he'd met Yennefer – and nothing good had come out of that chance meeting, either.

No, Geralt would not apologize for speaking only the truth. He was glad to be finally rid of the bard. Or he would be, in time. Who knew what other trouble would have found him if they'd continued to travel together? There was only so much destiny one could take, and Geralt hadn't even begun to unfuck all the messes he was already in thanks to Jaskier. He had no need for more trouble and foolish bards that caused it.

But leaving Jaskier behind was easier said than done. It merely took a few short hours for Geralt to stumble upon him again. There was only one way down the mountain, after all, one road to follow, and it had led Geralt straight to the campsite overlooking the canyon where they'd all spent the night before. Yennefer's tent was gone, as was she, and Geralt wasn't surprised by that at all. Why walk down a mountain when a portal could take you anywhere? The dwarves were long gone, too, probably using more hidden passages only known to them to deliver the dragon teeth and claim their prize.

And yet the campsite wasn't deserted. Alone, with only his trusted lute as companion, Jaskier sat in front of a pitiful fire, strumming his instrument with almost absentminded fingers. His hands were trembling, something Geralt had never seen them do before, and that was startling enough to make him pause at the edge of the clearing, just out of sight.

"Her current is pulling you closer," Jaskier sang quietly, vacant eyes staring at some point on the horizon without seeing anything at all. He was singing about Geralt and Yennefer, and their ill-fated romance. Of course he was, Geralt thought, mentally rolling his eyes. Normally, he wouldn't have given a fuck about that. He would have walked on and left the bard behind for good. But something seemed off about Jaskier, something was _different_, and it kept him rooted to the spot. Maybe it was the rawness he heard in Jaskier's voice, or the way Jaskier swallowed hard between the verses as if he had trouble holding in his emotions.

In the end it didn't matter why he stayed. He did, and for once he was not just hearing but listening, entranced by words, voice and sight. This was a Jaskier he had rarely seen before: one who was quiet, serious and without any of the theatrics Geralt had gotten so used to over time. It felt strange to see him like this, so open and vulnerable.

And then Jaskier sang a line that burned itself into Geralt's mind, never to be forgotten.

"I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting," he sang softly, and his voice broke with so much sorrow Geralt could feel it in his very bones.

This was new. The Jaskier he knew wrote epic ballads and witty drinking songs – songs that were entertaining and left his audience with a tune stuck in their heads for days. He wasn't one for singing songs about heartbreak, songs that laid his personal feelings bare for all the world to see. And Geralt had no doubt that Jaskier's emotional lyrics came straight from his heart. He could _hear_ it.

His resolve to leave the bard behind for good and without an apology began to crumble into dust as he realized that this song had never been just about him and Yennefer. It was about all three of them, about the way Jaskier allowed Geralt to treat him – and about the way he felt, and what he wanted so desperately and believed he had no hope of ever getting.

Almost unwillingly, Geralt thought back to the almost one-sided conversation they'd had in this very place only a mere day ago. At the time he hadn't understood what Jaskier had been truly asking him when he suggested heading to the coast, what he'd hoped for when he said, "I'm just … just trying to work out what pleases me."

There had been so much more to Jaskier's words than Geralt had heard at the time. He had been so completely unaware of the hidden meaning between the lines, of all the things Jaskier hadn't said, that he hadn't realized what Jaskier had been trying to tell him all this time.

Had he been a mortal man, the realization that Jaskier _wanted to be with him_ would have left Geralt staggering. Instead he stood there frozen at the edge of the campsite as the hollow emptiness inside him turned into a wave of regret that was both unfamiliar and unwanted. This was the very reason he didn't have many people in his life that were more than fleeting acquaintances. You got attached, you started to care and all that ever led to was somebody getting hurt.

Only three people in this world had that kind of hold over him and could make him do things he would otherwise consider foolish or a waste of time: the Child Surprise, loath as he was to admit it, Yennefer and Jaskier. Out of all of them, Jaskier was the only one who had chosen to be connected to him, who'd walked a part of his life beside Geralt out of his own free will despite being aware of the fact that he was neither wanted not needed.

"Look, why don't we leave tomorrow?" he had said only yesterday. "That is, if you'll give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion."

Ever since they'd known each other the only thing Jaskier had wanted was to travel with him, to be by his side and share in Geralt's adventures. He had never asked for more, never pressured Geralt for anything but his company, and yet Geralt had used every possible opportunity to make him feel like a nuisance and a burden.

Unwanted.

He saw the result of his actions plain and clear in Jaskier's eyes now, in the tears that threatened to fall and in the way he choked up and finally had to abandon his song altogether.

"Fuck," Geralt murmured under his breath as Jaskier buried his head in his knees, his shoulders shaking with the tell-tale sign of distress born from grief.

He turned away from the sight, unable to bear it. He had caused this. Jaskier had put up with so much from him since the day they met without batting an eye, and now Geralt had managed what no monster, no beast, no ungrateful townsfolk had been able to do: he'd pushed Jaskier to his breaking point with only a few uncontrolled words hastily spoken in anger.

Looking back on it, Geralt realized he had only been angry at himself up on that cursed mountain, at his life and the choices he'd made. He'd had no right to take his anger out on Jaskier like that, to make him pay the price for his frustration with Yennefer. All Jaskier had been trying to do was to cheer Geralt up, to pull his thoughts away from his loss with a few upbeat words – tactless ones, perhaps, but well-meant all the same, as Geralt now understood with the clarity of a calm mind.

The accusations he had thrown at Jaskier a few hours ago might not have been completely wrong but they weren't the whole truth, either. Yes, Jaskier had dragged him to the ball in Cintra – but he was not responsible for Geralt's subsequent actions that earned him a Child of Surprise. And yes, Jaskier had squabbled with him over the Djinn but it had been Geralt, sleep-deprived, who had played along instead of putting an end to it before things could escalate. It also wasn't Jaskier's fault that they had met Yennefer after that, or what Geralt used his last wish for and the wheels that decision set in motion.

Jaskier might have been a catalyst for all those things but in the end Geralt could only blame himself for the consequences he now faced. He had wronged the bard up on the mountain. He had wronged him terribly. It was a bitter realization, and it made Jaskier's tears a lot harder to bear than Yennefer's. With Yennefer, Geralt had been trying to save a life. He hadn't meant to hurt her in the process, or to cause her pain. That had been unintentional, an after-effect of a well-meant deed. But with Jaskier, Geralt had been intentionally cruel. He had lashed out at him viciously, had picked every word to inflict as much damage as possible. He had wanted to hurt Jaskier as much as he could, to take from him his cheerfulness and optimism and make him feel as miserable as Geralt had felt in that very moment.

And he'd succeeded.

It made him feel sick to his stomach. Geralt didn't want to be this kind of person, the one who left a wasteland of sorrow in his wake. Only a monster would prey on the insecurities of others and use them against them. Only a monster would want to kill the light inside his friends that made them laugh and smile.

And only a monster intentionally caused others pain and enjoyed it.

What had Jaskier called him in his first song, written so long ago? A friend of humanity. That's what Geralt wanted to be, had strived to be for all this time and yet managed to completely ruin in one day with a handful of furious words. He'd hurt the one person who had always stood by him no matter what, who seemed to genuinely enjoy his company and wished for nothing more in his life than to travel with him to the ends of the world and back again.

Such a simple wish, and asked so tentatively out of fear of rejection, and Geralt had taken it and torn it to shreds without a second thought. Jaskier hadn't deserved that. He hadn't deserved any of the cruel words Geralt had thrown at him in the past. How many tears had Jaskier shed in private because of him and his thoughtlessness? How often had he feared waking up in the morning to find Geralt gone and himself alone and abandoned once more? How often had he wished for a kind word, a gentle hand or a soft smile to be returned in kind?

Too often, Geralt would wager.

He knew he couldn't change the past, or take back what he had said and done, but he could strive to be better. It wouldn't kill him to be more kind, to appreciate those around him a little more, Jaskier first and foremost. He _had_ to try at least, for both Jaskier's sake and his own, and he had to find a way to close the rift between them he had caused lest the chasm became so wide it would be unsurmountable – and Geralt knew he needed to start now, tonight, no matter what. This was something that couldn't wait, not another day, not another hour.

He had to fix this _now_.

He just hoped he wasn't too late.


	2. Amends

_**Chapter 2: Amends**_

When, half an hour later, Geralt stepped into the firelight with a deer slung over his shoulder and announced that he brought food two things happened: Jaskier let out a startled scream, and Geralt got a handful of dirt thrown at his face.

"Damn it, Jaskier!" he growled, blinking hard against the stinging in his eyes and letting the deer fall to the ground in an unceremonious heap.

He couldn't really see Jaskier since everything around him was blurred but the surprise in Jaskier's voice was quite clear when he exclaimed, "Oh shit, _Geralt_?"

"Hm," Geralt grunted in affirmation while trying to wipe the dirt out of his eyes with his bare hands. It didn't work. He was only making things worse, and in the end it took a generous amount of water from his flask to wash away the last silty remains of Jaskier's defensive action. In any other situation Geralt would have been proud of Jaskier for his quick thinking and reflexes – something the bard had seriously lacked when they first met. In that moment, however, with his eyes still tearing up, Geralt found that rather … difficult.

By the time he finally managed to blink the last remnants of the burning wetness away Jaskier was slowly edging away from him. There was a wary expression on his face as he took step after tentative step back, one that had never been directed at Geralt before – only ever at _monsters_. Geralt couldn't deny that it hurt to have Jaskier, of all people, looking at him like that.

Even worse, though, was the silence that hang between them, heavy and unnatural. Jaskier was never this quiet. He was loud and always talking about one thing or another, and whenever he was not speaking he was singing or filling the silence with the mindless plucking of the strings of his lute. Geralt should know. He had spent many hours of many days listening to mindless chatter and new songs in their first dreadful stages of composition as the bard walked the road beside him – so many, in fact, that he could barely remember all the instances he had longed for blessed silence.

Now that his wish had been granted, Geralt regretted every complaint he'd ever made. This silence didn't feel as blessedly quiet as he had always imagined it would. It felt oppressive and just _wrong_, and Geralt wanted nothing more than for Jaskier to look at him like he used to and start a stream of words about the mysteries of dragons or whatever else pleased him at the moment.

But Jaskier's lips remained sealed and for once it fell to Geralt to talk.

Finding something to say turned out to be harder than it should be. _Be kind_, Geralt reminded himself, and with a nod to Jaskier's hand which was still clenched tightly around another fistful of canyon dust he finally murmured, "Good thinking with the dirt."

"What are you doing here?" Jaskier asked, ignoring Geralt's compliment completely. Almost self-consciously, he let go of the remaining dirt in his hands, and with nothing to hold onto Jaskier's thumbs began to trace nervous circles against the pads of his index and middle fingers. It was a tell-tale sign that he was nervous, or scared, and Geralt knew it well. He had seen it before, when Jaskier's confidence wavered or when danger was so close even he could feel it, but never when it was just the two of them alone and there was no monster around and nothing to fear.

Except there was, Geralt realized, because _he_ was here. He had done this. He had put that look on Jaskier's face, and after all the horrible accusations he had thrown at the bard's head only a few hours ago, Jaskier had every right to look at Geralt as if he was afraid of him.

He had every right _to be scared_.

Geralt tore his gaze away from Jaskier's restless fingers, not wanting to think about the implications of that train of thought. Motioning with one of his hands towards the deer, he finally said, "I brought food," as if that answered Jaskier's question in any way.

Jaskier's eyes, normally so open and friendly, were guarded now as they briefly flicked over to the dead animal. "I can see that. But why?" he asked.

Geralt frowned. "It's getting dark. Time for dinner."

"I see." For a brief moment, Jaskier closed his eyes. He swallowed hard. "Do you want me to go?" he asked. He answered his own question before Geralt could even take a breath. "Of course you do, you've made that quite clear earlier," and his voice was terribly small and tearing at Geralt's insides when he added, "I'll … I'll just go and find another place to sleep, then. Get out of your hair and everything. Enjoy your meal, and – and for what it's worth, I'm sorry about your eyes."

_No_, Geralt thought in alarm. This was all going wrong. Jaskier wasn't supposed to leave. He was supposed to sit down and eat and give Geralt a chance to explain himself – and maybe, just maybe, if Geralt was really lucky, he would forgive him for being such an ungrateful fool. But instead Jaskier was turning around, turning _away_, and for a slow heartbeat Geralt could do nothing but watch his movements in stunned silence. Then, without thinking, he reached out.

"Stay," he asked quietly, making sure he was as gentle as he could be, and then, "There's enough for two."

He couldn't see Jaskier's face, but the arm beneath his hand began to tremble even as Jaskier froze under his touch.

"You don't want that."

The words were spoken with such certainty that Geralt felt icy fear claw its way up his back. "I do," he promised, hoping it would be enough, that Jaskier could hear the sincerity in his voice and believed him, while at the same time fearing that it wouldn't.

He was right. Jaskier shook his head, and his breath hitched so painfully in his chest Geralt could feel it in his very core when he whispered, "Why are you doing this? What game are you playing?"

"None," Geralt swore quietly – almost helplessly. "I promise you, Jaskier."

At hearing his own name spoken like that, soft and gentle and so very quiet, Jaskier took in a shuddering breath and finally turned around. His eyes were wide and damp in the firelight, full of pain and quiet despair. "Don't do this, Geralt," he pleaded. "Please don't do this."

Geralt had never heard him plead like that before, not with him or anyone else. Not even when Jaskier was injured or scared out of his mind. There was something raw and painful about him as he stood there before Geralt, trembling like a fading leaf in an autumn storm as if he could barely hold himself together – and _begging_.

For what exactly, Geralt didn't know. For his life, perhaps? He dismissed the notion at once. He had never physically harmed Jaskier – well, he had to amend, _almost _never. Geralt still remembered the look on Jaskier's face on the day they'd first met when his punch had driven all the air from his lungs and had him doubling over and falling to the ground from the sheer force behind it. Geralt knew he didn't have to hit him that hard to get his point across, didn't have to make him stumble and lose his footing on the path, but he nevertheless had. He had hurt Jaskier just because he could.

And then there was the whole matter with the Djinn that had left Jaskier gasping for breath and clawing at his throat in pain for hours – that would have killed him had they not found Yennefer. Even though the wounds the Djinn inflicted hadn't been intentional on Geralt's part he knew their fault still lay with him.

And yet Jaskier had never blamed him for either the Djinn or the punch, not once in all the time they had known each other. So, no matter how guilty Geralt now felt about both of these instances, he had no reason to believe that Jaskier would actually be afraid of getting physically hurt by him.

But there were other kinds of pain, Geralt knew, different kinds of wounds that were far worse than any injury to the flesh could ever be. He had seen them all over in haunted eyes and trembling hands. They were nearly invisible, almost treacherously so, festering painfully for months or years while hiding behind smiles and laughter until the pain became so unbearable they ruptured, weeping for all the world to see.

_I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting. _

No, Jaskier was not afraid of physical pain. What he feared was far more dangerous and damaging. He was afraid that Geralt would take the broken fragments of his heart and tear them even further apart until nothing would be left of them but fragile dust that scattered in the wind, lost forever.

"Jaskier," was all Geralt managed to rasp out when the magnitude of his actions truly hit him. How could he possibly mend the hurt he had caused, and not just from earlier today but from the first moment they had met and every chance meeting that had followed? How could he ever hope to apologize for all the unkind words he had said, for all those jokes he had made of Jaskier's singing – or for all the times he had sent him away or, even worse, left him behind in the early hours of the morning in the middle of the woods without even a goodbye?

"Fuck," Geralt whispered as all those little things he'd said and done came crashing down on him, collapsing like a bridge under too much strain. He let go of Jaskier's arm as if he'd been burned, and took a step back. He of all people had no right to touch him, not anymore. He'd forsaken that privilege when he'd decided to send him away.

Across from him, Jaskier stood frozen. His breathing was shallow and too rapid, and for a long, hard moment he stared at the spot on his arm Geralt's hand had lingered on just a few seconds ago. When he finally looked away his eyes were red and Geralt hated himself for the sorrow he saw him them.

"I … I'll go, then" Jaskier said in a such a resigned voice that Geralt felt his stomach drop.

"Wait!" he said instead, and to his great relief Jaskier did. Geralt knew he didn't deserve this, didn't deserve Jaskier giving him all these second and third and fourth chances, no matter how glad he was for them. He kept screwing them up, and the words he truly wanted to say refused to be spoken as if his tongue had been tied up in an impossible knot. He had not the faintest idea how to unfuck this situation, and it was probably written all over his face for all the world to see.

For _Jaskier_ to see.

Geralt had no idea why the bard was still willing to listen to him but he knew he was running out of time to explain himself – and out of chances, too. He had to do something, now, or Jaskier would be slipping through his fingers, possibly for ever.

For nothing more than a second, his eyes met Jaskier's across the fire and there was a brief flicker of something in them, something that almost looked like hope beneath an armor of caution. It was that tiny spark, gone in the blink of an eye, that finally gave Geralt the strength to say the words he should have said a long time ago: "I'm sorry, Jaskier."

Jaskier didn't say anything, didn't even look at him, and when the silence between them began to stretch once more, Geralt let his head hang in defeat. "I know it's not enough, and I won't keep you here if you don't want to stay. But, for what it's worth, I would like you to. Stay, that is. And I would like to talk to you, if you will let me."

"What could we possibly have to talk about?" Jaskier asked. He wrapped his arms around his middle in a feeble attempt at self-protection.

_Not a good sign_, Geralt thought.

He took a deep breath. "About me fucking up."

Jaskier let out a derisive snort that did nothing to hide how bright his eyes were brimming with emotions. "You'll have to be more precise than that, Geralt. You do fuck up a lot."

He was right about that, and Geralt was slowly beginning to realize that Jaskier was right about a lot of things – always had been. He nodded his head in silent acknowledgment. "I want to talk about me fucking up earlier. When I yelled at you."

Jaskier sucked in a sharp breath, and Geralt didn't have to be a Witcher to see how tightly Jaskier's fingers were gripping at his sides in a desperate attempt to physically reign in his emotions. Jaskier's hands were almost white with the effort, and Geralt wouldn't be surprised if he woke up with finger-shaped bruises over his ribs tomorrow. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and ease Jaskier's hold on the garment, to ease his_ pain_, and yet he was afraid of only causing more by doing so. So instead of stepping closer Geralt took another step back to give Jaskier space.

"Or we could just have dinner, and not talk at all," he suggested quietly, hoping he was doing the right thing for once. "Whatever you want, Jaskier. I mean it."

To show him the sincerity behind his words, Geralt turned away from him completely and crouched next to the dead deer instead. With routine movements he began to skin the animal and prepare a meal – a pot of soup that would keep them warm during the cold night that was beginning to fall around them. He could feel Jaskier staring at him while he worked but didn't look up. What would happen next was up to Jaskier and Jaskier alone. If he decided to go, then Geralt wouldn't stop him. He'd make sure to follow him to keep watch over him during the night because these mountains were dangerous for travelers, especially lonely bards with only a handful of dirt and a priceless lute as their only defense – but he would do so from a safe distance, out of sight.

He hoped that Jaskier would stay, though, if only for one night. He hoped that he would give him one more chance to right his wrongs even though Geralt knew he didn't deserve it.

The minutes until Jaskier finally sat down on the log on the other side of the fire and murmured hoarsely, "I could do with some dinner," were the longest of Geralt's life.

He let out an almost inaudible sigh of relief and finally looked up from his task. Jaskier still had his arms wrapped around himself and was holding himself stiffly, tense as a drawn bowstring. He was deliberately looking anywhere but at Geralt and his fingers kept shifting nervously, and yet his words eased some of the pain in Geralt's chest. For the first time in hours he felt like he could breathe again. This was good. Jaskier was staying, at least for now, and maybe tomorrow he would be ready to listen to what Geralt had to say. Now all Geralt had to do was find a way to properly apologize to him and not screw it up – something that was easier said than done.

Geralt still had no idea how to make up for all his mistakes. Talking about feelings wasn't exactly his forte, and no matter how hard it had been for him to say the words earlier, he knew a simply, "I'm sorry," wouldn't cut it. And it shouldn't. Jaskier deserved more than that, and better – so much better than Geralt could ever hope to be. A short apology and a warm meal could not even begin to make up for the pain of a hundred unkind words and gestures.

But Geralt hoped they could be a start, and he would be damned thrice over if he wouldn't try to be more like the man Jaskier had always believed him to be – the _hero _he had always seen in him.

Geralt knew he wasn't the same person he used to be anymore, the one who'd once proclaimed to neither need nor want to be needed by anyone. Somewhere between that wretched day in Cintra and now he had changed, and for the better – something he had refused to admit until now, even to himself. He still wasn't fond of the idea of people needing him but that didn't change the fact that there were some in his life who did.

He looked across the fire at Jaskier and realized that any control he'd ever thought he had in regards to people getting too close to him had been nothing more than an illusion. It had been Jaskier's choice alone to walk up to him in that tavern and befriend him, and it had been Jaskier's choice to stick with him afterwards, too – and yet what came of it, the hurt Geralt had been able to cause because Jaskier cared about him had not been a choice but something that just … happened.

It was another thing Geralt began to understand: no matter how hard you try not to get attached to people, life always had other plans. Feelings were difficult, they were reckless and unpredictable, and no one had control over them. Not sorceresses, not bards and not even Witchers. People didn't choose to care about someone – they just _did_. Geralt might not have wanted someone in his life but that didn't change the fact that Jaskier was part of it.

_And yet … here we are._

How right he had been. Even back then Jaskier had seen what Geralt had so forcefully closed his eyes against: that there was a connection between them, a bond born out of one person's love that held no expectations. Geralt had no doubt that Jaskier would have gladly traveled at his side until the end of days without ever asking for more. He knew Jaskier would have stayed quiet about the intensity of his feelings and only taken that which Geralt offered willingly, no matter how little that was.

It was a humbling thought, to be loved so selflessly, one that made Geralt think with regret about what he and Yennefer had shared. Their passion seemed like nothing in comparison. They had been drawn to each other out of personal and selfish reasons: Geralt to repay a debt, and Yennefer because of her want for a child. Geralt's last wish hadn't helped matters, either.

He might have wanted Yennefer – he still did, if he was being honest with himself – yet Geralt didn't know how much of that was truly him or the work of the Djinn. Yennefer had been right about that: they could never be completely sure where their attraction was coming from.

With Jaskier, things were different. There was no hidden agenda, no external force ruling over them. There was just Jaskier and his quiet affections, so unlike anything Geralt had ever experienced before. He might not have wanted Jaskier as a companion, but the last few hours had shown him just how much he needed him. When he looked at Jaskier now, he saw past the annoying bard who didn't know when to shut up and got himself into more trouble than he should and saw a young man instead who cared so very deeply for someone he knew he shouldn't care for – and who did it all with a smile on his face even while he hopelessly longed to be shown just a little kindness, a little affection.

Geralt really was an idiot. He had spent so much precious time chasing after Yennefer while the person he truly needed had been right in front of him all this time.

He chanced another glance over at Jaskier. The cold of nightfall had begun to creep up on their campsite and he could see that Jaskier was slightly shivering despite the warmth of the flames in front of him. Without thinking, Geralt reached for the remaining logs next to him and piled them onto the fire. The flames licked at them greedily.

It was such a small and simple, _kind_ thing to do, to make sure that Jaskier didn't feel cold. It didn't hurt, wasn't difficult to achieve – and yet Geralt had hardly bothered with things like this before. Now it almost physically pained him to see the startled look of surprise on Jaskier's face, a testament to his former lack of regard.

"Thank you," Jaskier said softly. He shuffled a little closer to the fire and held out his hands to warm them.

Geralt was glad to see some of the tension finally leaking out of his shoulders. "You're welcome, Jaskier."

When the soup was ready he poured them both a generous amount, and they ate together in silence. Around them, animals and creatures of the night began to fill the darkness with their sounds, a natural orchestra Jaskier had appreciated more than once during their travels.

"Isn't it beautiful?" he had exclaimed in wonder, not so long ago. "Magnificent! I could never compose something so extraordinary!"

This time, Jaskier didn't say anything about the music of the night. He remained quiet and lost in his thoughts, not once looking up from his bowl. The moment he was done with his soup he stood up, and Geralt felt fear gripping at his heart that only eased when Jaskier murmured, "It's been a long day. I'm going to get some sleep."

He hesitated for a brief moment, as if he expected Geralt to stop him again. This time, Geralt didn't. He had promised Jaskier a meal, and that anything else was up to him. If Jaskier didn't wish to talk Geralt would not force him. He refused to betray what little trust Jaskier still had in him, no matter how much all those unspoken words between them pained him.

He let Jaskier go with a nod of his head. "Sleep well."

Jaskier blinked in surprise, and Geralt realized that bidding him goodnight like this, soft and gentle, was another small thing he had never done before. He regretted that now.

"You, too," Jaskier whispered, finally turning away. He settled down not too far from the fire, and for once he didn't complain about rocks digging uncomfortably into his back, or the hardness of the ground beneath his body. He simply turned onto his side so his back was to Geralt, wrapped his blanket around himself and closed his eyes.

Sleep didn't come easily for him. Jaskier's young heart refused to calm down for a long time, and every once in a while Geralt would notice a shudder wrecking his body. What hadn't been difficult to witness before was almost impossible to bear now, and more than once Geralt found himself stifling the urge to reach out in an attempt to soothe away Jaskier's pain.

He resigned himself to a long and sleepless night.


	3. Forgiveness

**Chapter 3: Forgiveness **

The mountains were glowing in a myriad of reddish hues with the light of dawn when Geralt opened his eyes. He blinked in confusion for a moment, not quite understanding what he was seeing. It should be dark. The sun had barely set when Jaskier had gone to sleep. It shouldn't be rising again so soon.

It _couldn't_.

"Shit!" he cursed when his brain finally caught up with his eyes. He shot up from the ground and started frantically looking around for a familiar mop of brown hair only to find none. The spot Jaskier had chosen to sleep in last night was empty. There was no sign of either his lute or his belongings, and the fire Geralt had stoked only a few hours ago had burned down to a few dark glowing coals.

"Jaskier!" Geralt shouted. He turned in all directions in hopes of a sign of the bard. His calls echoed in the canyons around him. "Jaskier! Where are you? Answer me, damn it!"

A few birds rose up into the sky, startled by the noise. They squawked in annoyance but other than that, the landscape remained awfully quiet.

Jaskier was gone.

For a moment Geralt just stood there, surveying the great vastness around him and trying to calm his racing heart. He knew Jaskier couldn't have been taken during the night. There was no way Geralt would have slept through an attack on their campsite, no matter how well-planned it was. Some monsters and men might be stealthy but none were so quiet he wouldn't hear them.

That left only one horrible conclusion: Jaskier had left willingly, rather facing the treacherous mountain paths in the dark than Geralt's pitiful apologies in the morning.

That realization hurt more than it should have. This wasn't the first time someone had left Geralt. He was used to this, to being alone. He _should_ be after all the years of solitude. Before yesterday, there had rarely been a goodbye in his life that left him yearning for the person's return. He'd told himself that he didn't need people, that he was fine with being on his own.

And he had been, for a while.

But when Yennefer had walked away from him it had _hurt_. Knowing he wasn't wanted, seeing the proof of it in her damp eyes and realizing that he was helpless to do anything about it had felt as painful as a knife twisting his ribs apart. Only one other person had ever made him feel this way before, had made him hurt like this. His mother was long gone now, yet Geralt remembered her smile clearly, and the pain it still caused him felt as raw today as it had all those years ago when she'd abandoned him on a dusty road.

Ever since then he had tried not to let history repeat itself by keeping himself closed off from everyone around him. Losing people, something that was inevitable with a life like his, was easier if he didn't care about them. But despite his best efforts not to let people in, history had reared its ugly head yesterday, carried on the golden wings of dragons.

For a long time Geralt had been sure nothing in his life would ever be able to rival the pain his mother's abandonment had caused him. Yennefer had proved him wrong, had ripped open old wounds that had never truly healed with the agony behind her words. Once more Geralt was left behind by someone he loved, and it had hurt so much that all rational thought left him and the very idea that he could feel even worse than in that moment had seemed impossible.

How wrong he had been – how utterly and stupidly wrong.

Losing Yennefer had been painful. It made him feel guilty for putting her in a position she had never wanted to be in in the first place, and it made him regret all the things that would never be because of his choices. Most of all, it had made him angry though, so very angry – at her, at himself, at his whole cursed life. He'd been beyond furious, a fire burning hot beneath his skin he hadn't known how to quell.

But all that turmoil was nothing compared to how he felt right now looking at the empty spot where Jaskier was supposed to be. There was no anger ready to leap out in cutting words now as Geralt gazed at the desolate campsite. There was no rage clouding his mind and blinding him to his surroundings, dulling the pain in white-hot sweltering fury. Instead a feeling of such terrible loss and regret settled in the pit of his stomach that he felt it with every breath he took. It left him empty and aching for a gentle voice to fill it with incessant talk and song.

Was this how Jaskier had felt every time he had woken up to find Geralt gone? Unsettled and disappointed, not knowing what he was supposed to do? Abandoned and utterly alone? Wondering what he'd done wrong?

Geralt's chest tightened at the thought as memories of tired blue eyes that lost all hope entered his mind. He made a conscious effort to push them resolutely away. Now was not the time for this.

He walked over to the fire and stamped out the faintly glowing coals before he started gathering up his things. While he packed up the remains of the deer, he couldn't help but wonder why he had fallen asleep last night of all times. It didn't make any sense. He usually didn't find rest that easily – and considering he had gotten a good night's sleep not long ago in Yennefer's tent Geralt hadn't expected to feel tired enough to succumb to it again so soon. So why had he? Why had his subconscious decided this craggy campsite, open on all sides to danger, was a perfectly safe place for him to sleep?

The answer was as surprising as it was simple, and it made Geralt stop in his tracks: Jaskier. Jaskier had been there, sleeping just a few feet away, and somehow that had been enough. The sound of his heart, beating calmly once he had finally managed to fall asleep despite the turmoil raging inside him, had been so soothing and reassuring that Geralt had allowed himself to relax, just a little. He remembered how the tension had slowly left his body as he watched the gentle rise and fall of Jaskier's chest – and then nothing.

Geralt groaned. He'd made a mistake last night by allowing himself to lower his guard. He'd been so certain that sleep would elude him that he hadn't recognized the peacefulness that had settled over him. He hadn't realized that things were different now, that something had changed between them – that after the fear of having pushed Jaskier out of his life for good having him close by was enough now for his mind to settle and find some peace where it hadn't before.

And now Jaskier was gone because Geralt was a fool who couldn't articulate his emotions to save his life.

He knew he had promised to let Jaskier decide whether he wanted to talk to him or not – and Jaskier had obviously decided not to. But there was no way Geralt would leave him alone on this mountain, not when Jaskier was probably not thinking straight in his desire to bring some distance between them and putting himself into unnecessary danger because of it.

Geralt's eyes traced the trail that went down the mountain, following it until it became lost in the morning fog. The clouds were hanging heavy in the valley below, obscuring everything beneath them from view, and Geralt could smell traces of rain in the air. He frowned, and worry curled in his stomach. Rain made the treacherous slopes of this region even more slippery than they already were, and Jaskier had most likely set out while it was still dark, making the whole prospect of climbing down the mountain even more dangerous. Visions of tumbles down jagged cliffs, of broken bones and bloody skin and horribly vacant eyes entered Geralt's mind against his will, and his stomach dropped at the mere thought of Jaskier getting injured, or worse, because of him.

He needed to find Jaskier, right now, if only to make sure he was all right and got down the mountain safely. After that they could part ways, if that was what Jaskier wanted, but Jaskier's physical safety came first.

With everything packed up, Geralt followed the path as quickly as he could without being completely reckless, all the while keeping his eyes open and his ears pricked for any sign of Jaskier or potential danger. The farther down he went, the more treacherous the ground beneath his feet became. Mist hung heavily in the air around him, making visibility low, and soon turned into a cold, heavy rainfall that drowned out almost any other sound.

"Jaskier!" Geralt shouted through the rain, afraid of accidentally passing the bard by in his hurry to find him. "Jaskier, where are you? Jaskier!"

He got no answer, and the worried beating of his heart increased with every step he took and every second that passed without him finding his friend. Because that was what Jaskier was to him, no matter how long or hard Geralt had tried to deny it: Jaskier was his friend, the only person who liked him for who he was, not what he embodied. He had given Geralt his heart a long time ago in that inn, linking them together with something stronger and so much more honest than destiny, and Geralt had done a piss-poor job of taking care of it so far.

He wasn't ashamed of a lot of things he'd done in his life, but the way he had treated Jaskier, the years it had taken him to realize the pain he had caused with every dismissive shrug and sharply worded barb – that was unforgiveable.

"Jaskier!" he shouted again, listening for a beating heart in the downpour. He almost lost his footing on the muddy ground when his ears finally picked up on a familiar fluttering sound to his left – faint and agitated, but unmistakably Jaskier's heartbeat. It came from off the path, and when he finally laid eyes on Jaskier standing beneath a narrow ledge that sheltered him from most of the rain, shivering and caked in mud but blessedly alive, Geralt felt like he could finally breathe again.

"Jaskier," he almost sighed in relief as he stepped under the shelter of the ledge, glad to be out of the rain. "There you are."

At the sound of his voice Jaskier whirled around, his lute raised high in front of him in defense. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second when he recognized Geralt, but his face closed off immediately and a look of exhausted resignation replaced his initial surprise. "Why couldn't you have just kept walking?" he muttered.

The words stung.

"Mountains are dangerous in this weather," Geralt said, knowing he had to tread carefully. "I … I wanted to make sure you were all right." He paused, taking in Jaskier's soaked and muddy clothes, looking for any sign of injury. "Are you?"

Jaskier shot him a glare that would have been more intimidating had his lips not been tinged a faint and worrisome blue. "Do I look like I am all right?" He almost spat the words, and the strings of his lute twanged painfully as he put her down on the stony ground with more force than necessary. He spread his arms wide and his red jacket, heavy and dripping with rain and mud, clung tightly to his skin. "Huh? Does any of this look all right to you?"

Geralt tried a different approach. "Are you hurt?"

Jaskier's joyless, bitter laugh almost made him shudder. "Now, that's a loaded question if I ever heard one." He shook his head. "Why do you even care?"

While Jaskier's hostility was unfamiliar to him, Geralt knew the answer to his question without having to think about it – had known it for months, maybe even years – and for the first time he allowed the truth to be put into words so it could be heard.

"Because you're my friend, Jaskier," he said softly.

The surprise that crossed Jaskier's face made his heart ache – because Jaskier hadn't known, couldn't have known since Geralt had never told him before. But it was the way Jaskier's shoulders sagged with aching sadness, as if Geralt's words had drained him of all his strength and left him tired and exhausted, that made it _bleed_.

"I think we both know that's not true," Jaskier whispered with a small shake of his head, looking away from him. "You should go, Geralt. I'll be fine."

His whole frame was trembling when he said that, as if those words were the hardest thing he ever had to say. He wasn't fine, that much was obvious, and Geralt knew he wouldn't be for a long time if he left now. Some wounds even time couldn't heal without help.

His eyes roamed over Jaskier's shivering body again, once more taking in his soaked clothes, his pale face and the way his arms were wrapped around his lean frame in an attempt to stay warm, before he dropped his gear to the ground and started rummaging through his pack. He found what he was looking for in a matter of seconds.

"If you truly wish for me to go, I will leave," he began in a low voice. "I promised you yesterday that I would not force you to listen to me, and I stand by that. But take this, at least," he said, holding out a dark woolen cloak. "It will keep you warm."

To his surprise, Jaskier's face crumbled when his eyes fell on the cloak. "Why do you keep doing this?" he asked, just as helplessly as yesterday. "For years you basically ignore me, and now? Now you – do you enjoy seeing me suffer? Is that it? Do you like rubbing salt into wounds?"

Geralt shook his head, feeling just a little lost in the face of Jaskier's accusations. "It's just a cloak, Jaskier," he said quietly.

"It's not just a bloody cloak!" Jaskier cried. "Do you have any idea how often I wished for this? For you to be kind to me like this, just a little bit? Just _once_?"

His voice broke on the last word – the sound of pure heartbreak, and it tugged at Geralt heartstrings like a Siren's call, making him itch to reach out and put things right again in whatever way he could.

"I know–" he began, only to get interrupted at once.

"No, you don't!" Jaskier accused hoarsely. "You _can't_, because you don't want people around. You don't want people to _care_, so you don't know what it's like to want someone to smile at you just because they're happy to see you. What it's like to want them to laugh at your stupid jokes even though you know they're not funny. To want them to be there in the morning when you wake up – to want them to give you their bloody cloak because you're cold and they notice and actually give a damn about you!"

Jaskier was breathing hard by the time he had finished, and his pale and clammy skin was flushed with agitated red spots. He held Geralt's gaze for one long moment before he let out a shaky breath and turned away from him, hiding his face. "You don't know what it's like to be scared of being left behind, again and again and again," he whispered, his words barely audible above the sound of the rain. "To not be wanted."

Geralt lowered his head, his eyes burning with sorrow.

"I do, Jaskier," he confessed softly, ignoring the lump that had formed in his throat. "Witchers … you know that we are not generally well-liked or welcomed, no matter where we go. People are afraid of us."

"I wasn't," Jaskier mumbled, almost bitterly, his fingers moving restlessly at his sides.

"No, you weren't," Geralt said, more fondly than he would have a day ago. "You were brave."

Jaskier snorted. "I've been called many things. Brave has never been one of them," he muttered.

"Doesn't change the fact that you were, in that moment," Geralt said. Taking a chance, he stepped forward and gently draped his cloak around Jaskier's trembling shoulders. Jaskier tensed but he allowed the proximity, and Geralt's heart burned with a flicker of hope. "People like you, who see a Witcher not for what but for who he is, are rare and it's even rarer that we cross paths with them. But Jaskier, meetings like that – some would call them destined – always end the same way."

"With people leaving," Jaskier said quietly. His breath was fogging the air in front of him and he reached up to pull Geralt's cloak closer.

"One way or another, yes," Geralt confirmed. "Sometimes we disappoint them. Sometimes the pressure of society proves to be too much. Sometimes they die." He sighed, wiping a tired hand across his face. "It's the last one that hurts the most. When you live as long as I have, the death of those around you is inevitable. Humans are fragile, Jaskier, and their lives are so very short. I have learned that it's … easier not to get close to them in the first place."

Jaskier was silent for a moment, and when he finally turned around and looked up at him Geralt could see the sorrow he felt in his heart mirrored in Jaskier's eyes, damp and stormy like the sea he had wanted to visit.

"But then you will always be alone," Jaskier said, his voice awfully small and quiet. "That's no way to live, Geralt. Everyone needs friends. Even Witchers."

Geralt inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I'm beginning to see that." He met Jaskier's gaze and took a deep breath. "I … I know I have treated you unfairly in the past – and not just yesterday," he began tentatively. "I have said and done horrible things to you. I have _hurt_ you, and I can't undo that. That's something I will always have to live with."

Jaskier bit his lip and nodded, looking down at the ground between their feet.

"But those things you said earlier, about me being kind," Geralt continued. "I want to be that person, Jaskier. I want to try to be better."

Jaskier shook his head, and his grip on Geralt's cloak tightened until his knuckles looked almost white in the dim light. "You don't have to be _better_, Geralt," he whispered. "You don't have to change. Least of all for me. In case it wasn't obvious: I already like you just the way you are, with all your brooding _hm_s and growly _fuck_s." His eyes flicked up, and Geralt was taken aback by the honesty in them. "You might not see it but … you're already a good man, Geralt. That much I know."

Geralt knew he didn't deserve Jaskier's kindness, not after everything he'd done, but his words felt like the first rays of the sun after a long, cold night and he couldn't help but bask in them. If this was how Jaskier still saw him, then not all was yet lost.

Softly, he said, "Let me rephrase my words, then. I want to be the person you've always seen when you look at me," he said, taking another step closer. "I want to stop running away from my fears."

"Even though you know they'll come true?" Jaskier asked. "I'll die one day, and you will not. There's no way around that."

"Even so," Geralt said without hesitation. He'd rather have Jaskier in his life for a little while than not at all.

Jaskier swallowed hard, visibly struggling with the words he wanted to say. "What about Yennefer?" he asked. "You still have her. She'll come around, you'll see. She just needs time. And the Child Surprise is somewhere out there as well and I … we both know it's not just about the dying. I will grow old, Geralt." He let out a wet laugh that sounded painfully close to a sob and tore at Geralt like the storm chipping away at the stones above them. "I already _am_ and there'll come a day when I won't be able to keep up with you anymore because time doesn't stand still for me, not like it does for you and Yennefer. And then you'll leave and – and maybe you were right. Maybe we're better off apart."

"No!" Geralt said at once, panicking, and Jaskier's head snapped up in surprise. "No, Jaskier," he repeated more softly and his warm hand enclosed Jaskier's cold fingers in a gentle grasp. "Some things are worth the pain. You taught me that. And knowing you, spending a lifetime with you, however long that may be? That's one of them. _You're _one of them, Jaskier. You're worth it, and I'm sorry I didn't realize that sooner."

Jaskier's breathing hitched and his wide eyes were staring at Geralt with so much raw hope and desperate longing that Geralt couldn't help but finally close the distance between them. He knew he had sworn he wouldn't reach out to Jaskier like this, that he would give him space and let him decide where this would go. But in that moment Jaskier looked like he needed more than words to believe, so with as much gentleness as he could muster Geralt slowly moved forward, giving Jaskier plenty of time to step out of reach.

Jaskier watched him anxiously but he didn't shrink back like Geralt had feared he would. He froze, though, as Geralt's arms wrapped around him, and his body went so rigid that for one horrible second Geralt thought he got this all wrong, that he'd made a terrible mistake and ruined what little trust he had managed to regain since he drove Jaskier away yesterday.

But then Jaskier leaned forward as if drawn by an invisible force and pressed his head gently into Geralt's shoulder. His cold nose settled against warm skin, and Geralt let out a surprised, "Hm," and pulled him closer. That was all it took for Jaskier to crumble and break and fall apart in Geralt's arms until all Geralt could do was keep him close and anchor him against the raging storm inside him as best as he could.

"Please mean it," he heard Jaskier whisper faintly, his mantra muffled against Geralt's skin. "Please mean it. Please mean it. Please–"

"I mean it," Geralt promised, resting his cheek against Jaskier's hair while carefully rubbing warmth back into Jaskier's shivering body. The hands gripping Geralt's soaked shirt as if it were their last lifeline tightened their hold almost painfully in reply. "I will not leave you, Jaskier. Never again."

Jaskier let out a choked sob. "People _always_ leave. Every time. One way or another. You said so yourself."

His own words thrown back at him, the sheer loneliness and _want_ behind them, hit Geralt like a punch in the gut. Was this why Jaskier sought out every pair of welcoming arms he could find? Because it was the only way he could get the physical contact and human connection he craved so much? Because it was the only way for him not to feel lonely?

Almost absentmindedly, Geralt pulled up the cloak from where it was slipping from Jaskier's shoulders. "People sometimes don't have a choice in leaving," he said quietly. "Death comes for everyone. We both know that. But choosing to stay for as long as possible – that's something everyone can do." He closed his eyes, swallowing past the pain in his chest. "I'm sorry I never did that for you, Jaskier. I'm sorry I always left without a goodbye. You didn't deserve that."

"You're not the first person to do that," Jaskier choked out and the blood in Geralt's veins froze. He hadn't known that, hadn't known that Jaskier was used to being left behind, and it made him wonder how many people had broken the heart of this wonderful man who fell in love too easily and just wanted to be wanted in return. "People … people only ever like the music, not the bard," Jaskier went on. "Never the bard. Something must be wrong with me, something–"

"_I_ happen to like the bard," Geralt cut him off before Jaskier's thoughts could spiral even more. He pulled back from their embrace a little so he could look at him. "And I happen to like him not because of his music but despite it." Gently, he raised his hand to brush his thumb carefully over the soft and fragile skin beneath Jaskier's eye. "There is nothing wrong with you Jaskier, you hear me? Nothing at all."

Jaskier looked away, biting his lip so hard Geralt was afraid he would draw blood. Despite his obvious efforts Jaskier finally let out a whimpering sound, something Geralt had only ever heard when Jaskier fought faceless monsters in his dreams at night. It tore at his insides and without thinking about it, he leaned his head down, just a little, to rest his forehead against Jaskier's, hoping the closeness would help. He was surprised Jaskier's eyes immediately fell shut and something like peace settled over his face.

"This is nice," Jaskier murmured, his breath ghosting over Geralt's face, and his words broke Geralt's heart. What he was doing – a simple touch – wasn't much, he knew that, but judging from the grateful tone of Jaskier's voice the gesture meant the world to him.

It was humbling.

"I was wrong, yesterday," he admitted softly. "Having you by my side is a blessing, not a curse. I am sorry for not seeing that sooner." He swallowed hard, once more brushing his thumb over pale skin. "I'm sorry for a lot of things in my life, Jaskier, but I'm not sorry for knowing you, all right? Whatever happens, I'll _never_ be sorry for that."

Jaskier's breath caught in his throat and a sensation of pure happiness radiated from him. It tingled across Geralt's nerves, along his arteries and veins, and made him feel warmer than any fire ever had or possibly could. The look of wonder that spread over Jaskier's face was the most beautiful thing Geralt had ever seen, and it soothed a pain inside him he hadn't even known was there.

Almost shyly, Jaskier smiled at him. "You know, I never regretted walking up to you in that tavern and following you on your adventures," he admitted. "It was the best decision I ever made."

_Even despite all the pain I have caused you?_ Geralt wanted to ask. But seeing Jaskier smile for the first time in days, his eyes full of affection and love and so much happiness it was almost overwhelming, Geralt found he couldn't. Some things didn't need to be said. They both knew the wounds Geralt's actions had caused were deep and not so easily healed. It would take weeks, maybe even months or years for Jaskier to go to sleep without worrying about waking up alone in the morning. Geralt had no illusions about that. It would take time and patience until Jaskier trusted him again with his heart as freely and completely as he used to – but right now, in that very moment, Geralt could see in Jaskier's eyes the tattered remains of that trust slowly knitting themselves back together again and tentatively reaching out to him, and it was enough to make him smile.

"I would be honored to have you as my travel companion again," he said honestly, reaching for Jaskier's cold hands and holding them between his as if they were the most precious gemstones in the world. "Will you share the road with me once more?"

"Down the mountain?" Jaskier asked, a hint of uncertainty and wariness in his voice.

Geralt gave his hands a reassuring squeeze.

"Down the mountain, across the plains, to the edge of the world and back again." He paused and met Jaskier's gaze. The brilliant blue of his eyes looked stormy-grey in the heavy rain and made Geralt think of foamy waves crashing along a beach. "We could head to the coast …" he suggested quietly.

Jaskier's eyes widened. "You remembered," he breathed.

Geralt nodded. "I do."

Jaskier's face softened with the beginnings of a shy smile, all uncertainty and wariness washed away.

"The coast," he mused quietly, looking out into the rain with a faraway look on his face. Geralt didn't know what he was seeing, but when Jaskier turned back to him and their gazes met again, there was a familiar spark in his eyes Geralt had feared extinct. It made his heart soar with joy.

"I think I'd like that," Jaskier decided with a smile and a nod, and Geralt gave his hand another gentle squeeze. "I'd like that very much."


End file.
